There is a patch of gold
In my room
On my floor
Between the swoops and swirls of crumpled paper
Where I can pretend to see the sky under
Tundra ceiling and a misplaced smoke detector
Enough to salty yawn as frantic tendrils stretch
And to grind holy residue under nails
To later remind you
There is a patch of gold
In my room
On my floor
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